Of Kingsized Beds and Early Mornings
by KarlenePotterMalfoy
Summary: "Hell hath no wrath over a woman's fury." Only James Potter can't seem to get it into his head Lily Evans' early morning temper ... but maybe it only takes an idiot's smile to cure the Head Girl of her mood. Read and Review, please!


**Disclaimer: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter series ... but if I did, I'd own an iTouch by now.**

**A/N: I am an absolutely mediocre writer, but I'd be willing to hear out any of your suggestions and comments. Read and Review, please! =)))))))))**

It would be wonderful to sleep in a king-size bed complete with soft, heavenly pillows serving as a battlefield for all those fascinating (cough, cough) teenage dreams, and blankets straight from Heaven. It would be even more wonderful to wake up without a back ready to give in any minute of your short, seventeen year old life.

Oh, I'm so terribly sorry! I totally forgot to introduce myself amidst my oh-so-fascinating ramble on king-size beds: _hello, my name is Lily Evans and I am a seventh year witch in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_. Yes, you heard right. I am a witch. Ha, didn't think about that before you started to read this rather enlightening account of my oh-so-fascinating adventures in Hogwarts, eh?

Anyway, before we start throwing each other some rather nasty little hexes (but of course, on my part not yours since I deduce that you are clearly a Muggle), let me first explain the pangs of adolescence of which I go through everyday of my not-so-ordinary life. And no, I am not talking about a certain period in a teenage girl's life where she suffers most terribly every month. Although puberty is to blame. You see, when a teenage lad sets his eyes on a particular teenage girl what's left of his heavily damaged brain tends to turn all mushy and turns against him ... although I have no particular proof of this since my only hypothesis is based on a—let's say, moronic type of man.

James Potter, my fellow Head (yes, yes, extraordinary, isn't it?), has always claimed since our third year that he is madly, passionately, snog-worthy in love with me. And yes, after that I punched the living daylights out of him (for a few hours, that evil Madam Pomfrey managed to revive him; curse her, I always knew she was against me). And yet, that—that git never, ever gives up even after I refuse him in the most violent ways possible! How truly extraordinary ... ha, for a mad philosopher like Headmaster Dumbledore or some odd genius like that Socrates! But for moi, it seems pure, nasty, unadulterated stupidity.

"_Would the lovely, feisty Miss Lily Evans care to join the devilishly handsome, dashing Sir James for a wonderful afternoon in Hogsmeade this weekend?" James Potter once said, in a posh British accent, complete with a snobbish look (with made him look gay, once you think about it)._

"_Okay, where is he?"_

"_But I'm here! Talking to you!"_

"_Oh hold on, there he is by the lake! Dear me, he looks particularly fine today. Yes, I might join him for a walk. See you, Potter."_

Yes, I am quite insane, aren't I? Mother and Petunia say so, although Daddy tells Mother not to judge me so harshly since she herself threw him in the trash bin the first time he asked her out. I worried then; was I as insane as my mother? I consulted my very best friend, Alice, about it and here's what she said (more like shrieked):

"Are you kidding me, Lily? Refusing to date _James Potter_— _the_ James Potter of the typical teenage girl's dreams? And threatening to throw him out to the lake if he asks you one more time (which never fails to make him scoff, mind you)? And you're asking me if you're _insane_?"

I do think she was quite deprived of her happiness that time, mind you. Something about the house elves practically murdering her pudding ... oh well. The fact is, I don't _feel_ insane. That is, I don't go around the Great Hall in my undies declaring the end of all mankind. Oh no, I don't feel like doing any of _that _... well, I guess not today. I guess if Potter continues to drive me out of my mind I may soon be entering an asylum force-fed by nurses.

Although I must admit that _the_ James Potter I knew seems to have flown out of the Wizarding World and into the land of Oz, because _the _James Potter doing Head duties with me certainly does not say obnoxious, sexist remarks on the incredibility of women actually beating men in Quidditch. Oh, and of course, he has deflated himself a bit when it came to asking me out...

Now, going back to the whole point of this story.

You see, I am not a morning person. I am worse than Petunia on a bad day when it comes to early morning disturbances (and that is most certainly saying something). When I wake up every morning, Alice knows what time to ignore me and what time to actually greet me, "Good morning, Lillian! Fine weather we're having, aren't we? What say you and I indulge ourselves in this lovely piece of toast and coffee?" or some other insane words of optimism. Even McGonagall knows the appropriate hour of the day to actually say, "Miss Evans, your Head duties with Mr. Potter for the day are as follows..."

Only one person cannot seem to grasp the fact that I am not Miss Wonderful Personality at six o' clock in the morning 'til seven. Guess. Yes, you guessed right: _James bloody Potter_. Here's one particular incident where you can clearly see the stupidity in that lad:

"Hey, hey, Evans!"

"Oh _no_," I whispered in horror to myself, only half-awake.

"Evans, Evans, hey!"

"What the hell, Potter?" Judging by the absolute ecstasy on his face, I guessed he hasn't heard the hostility and _leave-me-bloody-alone_ in my croaky, early morning voice.

"Say, Evans ... I guess I haven't noticed 'til now. You look particularly gorgeous early in the morning." He smiled, quite charmingly if I do say so myself.

But, as you might have guessed, I'm not good with compliments in this time of the day ... particularly ones from the boy who made my mornings, afternoons, and evenings a living hell.

"_Aaaaaaaaargh_! Can't you see that I am not in the mood for your stupid, insipid, no-good flirtations, Potter? Can't your tiny little brain comprehend that NO, I do NOT want to go out with no matter how many times you call me a gorgeous piece of art! My answer was, is, and always will be NO!" I screamed, voice cracking, and stamping my feet in the typical little girl tantrum (which, by the way, looks absolutely ridiculous on a seventeen-year-old Head Girl).

Potter merely smiled, although only an idiot wouldn't see the obvious look of hurt that flashed in his gorgeous, mesmerizing, hypnotizing, heart-melting hazel eyes (...now where did that come from?)

But then I simply couldn't deny the fact that I rushed directly back to my room and frantically checked my mirror, trying and failing to conceal the smile that so treacherously betrayed me.

Now, this early morning isn't so different. Except for the fact that I woke earlier than the early I used to wake up to, nothing was different ... or so I thought after I got out of my terribly uncomfortable bed (not that it was really _uncomfortable_, I only just wanted a king-size). I should have known that the moment I took my last step on the staircase down into the Head's common room that my bloody morning would take a turn for the ... eherm, let's say, for the out of the ordinary.

It all started with:

"_Aaaaaaaaah_!" Some deity must have planned some unimaginable mischief for me today, since I somehow tripped on the stair. How or why, I don't know ... sometimes, weird things happen not because there's a reason, but because you were meant to suffer at some point in your life.

"Careful, Lillian." A strong pair of arms caught me just in the nick of time and somehow I landed on his chest. I groaned when I looked up at the devilishly handsome face of James Potter grinning at me with the look of one who just won the lottery.

"Thanks, Potter," I grunted, managing a half-hearted smile.

"Well, I'll be," he remarked, mock-surprised. "Aren't you the early bird? I thought the Head Girl never, ever woke up before six."

"Yeah, well, aren't you the clever one?" I retorted, getting off his chest (which made me only slightly miffed, mind you, _slightly_).

"And isn't it supposed to be a Saturday?"

Damn.

He laughed at the look on my face. "Oh, don't worry, Lily. I'm sure this has got some benefits for you. I daresay Sirius isn't even up yet. Beat him to the table, ha, ha!"

"Oh, very funny, James. Yes, very witty, indeed. I'm sure if the whole world just heard your wonderful humor, world hunger and poverty would end, wouldn't it?" That wonderful piece of sarcasm actually drove a lot of people out of their wits in no time, but apparently James Potter was an exception.

In fact, if it were possible, his smile brightened even more. "Excellent! Why, I'd be a hero! Isn't that wonderful, Lily? Me, ol' _James Potter_? A hero! And you, my dear ... you make a lovely maiden in distress." He winked. Dear God, he actually winked at _me_.

In spite of myself, I actually smiled. Dear God. "I wouldn't count on _distressed_, Potter."

"You know, Evans," he moved closer to me, his nose now inches to mine, "I said it before and if you don't mind I'll say it again ... you look particularly gorgeous early in the morning. Do you grow more beautiful every time you smile? 'Coz you really should smile more often, then." He winked again, the smile on his face so incredibly adorable that I really couldn't help but feel warm.

I couldn't just run away to my room again this time; the blush rose to my cheeks faster than I would have hoped it wouldn't, and the smile crept to my lips before I even managed to stop myself.

I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Um, thank you ... thank you, _James_."

Now, why would I want a king-size bed to make me smile more often when I've got idiots like James Potter to "_ruin_" my morning everyday?


End file.
